Let’s start fresh in a new way, have a clean slate in another town. Let’s break free from everything and reinvent the universe.

You probably know what this kind of thing takes. Creative Will might be murder. Should we call for the Bludgeon Party, if only to ridicule it?

Buenaventura Durruti speaks from Death:

“We are not in the least afraid of ruins. We are going to inherit the earth; there is not the slightest doubt about that. The bourgeoisie might blast and ruin its own world before it leaves the stage of history. We carry a new world here, in our hearts. That world is growing this minute.”

Well your type of all-or-nothingness is a lie. Everybody knows it. How could this be different next time/that time/9-11 time (when everything is unverifiable and equivalent, when all meaning is obliterated)?

There you go again, in and of the grid unthinking.

You’re a piece of work. You’re like a monochrome painting (both infinite space and flat opacity, a summoning and negation). You pretend to be the absent presence of unlimited potential.

And it’s become too much to take friend (even for puny mortals like me who barely grasp your depravity), this starting over without starting over, this stratification of forgetting.